Human
by Scandalacious Intentions
Summary: "Only in the memories of a sole middle-aged man was he funny, a brilliant Potioner, and covered in cake mix." The night that Lupin recieves the news of Peter's death, he forces himself to acknowledge Peter as more than the traitor he grew up to be.


**Disclaimer: How many times do we have to go over this? It's not mine. None of it is mine. Except Remus Lupin, who I have kidnapped and refuse to return.**

_March 1998_

Dead.

Lupin tried to remain unfazed by this news. After all, Peter Pettigrew was someone who he had chosen to pretend did not exist. The deaths of non-existent people ought not to get to him like this.

Though he resented every breath Pettigrew took, thinking it could have gone to James - or lately, Sirius -, he had taken comfort from the knowledge that somewhere out there was the proof that as a teenager he had been fairly good-looking, charismatic, and funny. He had had a bad start, but by the time he was eleven he had repaired himself to the point where other people did not fear him for his everyday quirks that came with his affliction. Somewhere out there was the proof that he could be anything or anyone he wanted to be. He didn't have to be Remus Lupin: social pariah for the rest of his life.

And now there was nothing. There was no-one else to remember their secrets or childish pranks.

He would have happily lived his life never speaking to Peter again, but it was comforting to know that if ever he should long for the good old days, Peter was there, and with his contacts, relatively easy to find.

But he knew he was deluding himself as he looked through the photographs he had chosen to keep, watching his three friends smile and wave up at him. He knew that this was the only form of contact he would ever again have with them, and as a thirty-seven year old man, staring at pictures of twelve year old boys all day was a worrying practice.

The very worst thing, he decided, was being the last Marauder. It held a certain office of responsibility - to continue to prank even when he was hurting more than he could have believed possible, to educate small children in the ways of lying, and to remember.

It was also ominous. Three Marauders had been lost to Voldemort. How long until he joined the faceless multitude of victims? How long did he have left to remember? If he lived for another fifty years, he might start to forget things. There was no-one to correct him when his memory served him wrongly, no-one to stop the memory warping into a falsity.

Lupin took a deep breath and calmed himself. Since James' death, he was fairly certain that he was having small but regular anxiety attacks over ridiculous notions or things he could not control. Not even Sirius and his policy of 'Fuck it' had been able to stop them. It was a mistake to have expected it to. Post-Azkaban Sirius no longer radiated calm and easy assurance. He was a ticking time-bomb, never able to just be still and hating silence - frightened of silence and darkness to the point where he would sing loudly out of tune while wandering around Grimmauld Place switching all the lights on.

Sharing a home with Sirius reminded Lupin that he was not entitled to panic attacks or nonsensical and irrational phobias.

And for all the irritation he felt when his bedroom light was switched on in the middle of the night because Sirius didn't want any room (not even one in which someone else slept) in darkness, he would give anything - really just about anything - to have him here with him, laughing and writing mock eulogies all through the night while making jokes that his unborn child would be born as a reincarnation with Peter's face.

Merlin, that was something else he could worry about now.

Lupin sat alone in the attic-cum-study on the topmost floor of his home and rifled through his teenage journals, looking for Peter's name in the entries, trying to redeem the memory of Peter or prove to himself that he had not played a part in making Peter who he turned out to be.

_3__rd__ October 1971_

_James still refuses to acknowledge Peter. I sometimes can't help but think that he sets himself up for it, trailing him around all the time. Peter seems all right, I suppose. A bit like a stalker, but all right. I wish James wasn't so stubborn._

Just as he had been unable to stand up for Snape, he was unable to stand up for Peter. He tried to soothe himself with the thought that he was only eleven at the time, and James and Sirius were the first friends he ever had. He had still been unsure of the etiquette. He hadn't been certain that he ought to make a stand. They might have decided they didn't like him anymore and he would have been in the same position as Peter.

He had no right, he thought, to call Peter a coward when he could not even stand up to his own friends.

_January 12__th__ 1972_

_Sirius coaxed us out in the cold. Not coaxed - nagged and irritated and well, Sirius was being Sirius._

_As soon as we were out there, he wanted to come straight back in. Though I think that was because he heard Peter screaming before me and Jamie did._

_Mulciber - the boy who isn't even very nice to his friends - was cursing him or something and I don't understand why, but I sort of went mental. Jamie went mental with me then and started shouting at me because I hit Mulciber with what he kept saying was half a tree. It wasn't. It was just a really really really big stick. Besides, M. was threatening to use an unforgivable curse on me and I had to pretend I didn't think he could do it, but he had a funny look in his eyes. _

_James seemed more worried that Peter might think we were now friends. But James was the one who asked him to hang around with us so I feel better now. _

_I still haven't asked Peter what was actually happening. I don't like to. Maybe he'll be offended._

Or maybe he had thought no-one cared.

Lupin abandoned the first volume, and pulled the next out at random. It was dated 1974-5 and emblazoned with the words 'Remus, this is the most boring book I ever read. I counted 'Anna' in all name variations a total of 368 times.' in Sirius' calligraphic loops.

He laughed bitterly to himself. Anna Lovett had been mentioned more times than there were days. He didn't think he could bring himself to read further, but he pressed on.

_February 10__th__ 1975_

_HE ASKED HER OUT! THE FUCKING PRICK HAD THE GALL TO ASK HER OUT!_

_I hate Peter. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him._

_It's OK because Anna said 'no' but the fact is that she has a boyfriend - not just any boyfriend, but Colin McCormack. My life is not worth living._

_And Peter was acting all dejected and lonesome so Anna told him he could go to the Valentine's thing in Hogsmeade with Alice who he has been wanking over for about three months so Peter was happy as a sandboy and forgot completely about the fact that I am hopelessly, hopelessly in love with Anna Lovett and he had just asked her out right in front of my face. _

_It doesn't really matter. She would never be my girlfriend. I'm not normal. I couldn't even have asked her to go with me because James is making me go with Lily so he can try and make her jealous all night because he's going with Kathryn Verona. _

_It's a stupid plan. It's completely ridiculous. And it just might work on Anna if she sees me with Lily._

_And Peter can piss right off next time he needs his bloody astronomy charts drawn up._

_And Anna asked me to help her with her summoning charm so I had to go with her into a little room and pretend to practice while she went on and on about how fantastic Colin is._

_Colin is not fantastic. He is a complete idiot and he goes around telling everyone what she does to him when they're in bed together. Obviously she doesn't know this and I had to literally press my lips together to stop it all coming out._

_I would never go around telling everyone about it if I was lucky enough for her to do to me half the things she apparently does to Colin._

Under this was written in the same handwriting that adorned the inside cover, "Moony, who are you kidding?"

Years later, as a married man with a baby due in a matter of weeks, Lupin still blushed furiously at the realisation that his thoughts as a hormonal fourteen year old had been read by his friend who would have relayed the entire entry out to James.

Years later, as a married man with a baby due in a matter of weeks, Lupin was still horrified that Peter had asked Anna when he knew that he had talked of no-one else for the past four years. How, he thought, had he not killed him? Because, said a little niggling voice in the back of his mind, he was your friend. You would have missed him.

Lupin frowned. Despite everything that happened, he _did_ miss Peter. Though this was not a new feeling. He had missed Peter when he thought Sirius had murdered him, and he had missed Peter when he realised that he had betrayed everyone who loved him.

He missed the Peter who had fixed his potions last minute before Slughorn could berate him before an entire class for his appalling efforts. He missed the Peter who had admitted his deepest secrets to him in the middle of the night. He missed the Peter who spent three years studying Animagii. He missed the Peter who looked up the prototype of the Wolfsbane potion for him. He missed the Peter who had walked calmly up to Mulciber on the last day of school and punched him in the face (receiving injuries in places Lupin had never before heard of in return).

He missed the days when Peter's biggest betrayal was asking a girl his best friend fancied to go to a dance with him.

He glanced down at the photograph he had stuck into the back of the journal, of four boys covered in cake mix and laughing until they cried. Peter was unrecognizable.

With a sudden realisation and a lurch in the pit of his stomach, the thought occurred to Lupin that he had spent the last four years pretending that Peter Pettigrew did not exist, and now he did not.

Peter Pettigrew existed in the halls of history as a traitor and a coward.

Only in the memories of a sole middle-aged man was he funny, loyal, a brilliant Potioner, and covered in cake mix.

Only in the memories of a sole middle-aged man was he human.


End file.
